Unoriginality 3: Tragic Melodrama
by Farla
Summary: Ch2: Giovanni made another mewtwo. What horrible, unending suffering will the clone face?
1. Grave Visit

I don't know exactly why I hate these sort of stories so much. Maybe it's because the basic premise is already so restricted there's not much more you can do with it. You have to use the same setting, premise, mood, dialogue, ending...sure, you can change the names, but it's still the exact same story. When you write stories where you can repost what you wrote in any fandom just by changing names, it's a sign of a problem.

I also hate the fact the number of characters in these things are always set. C'mon, people! Why can't **two** characters **both** be upset by something? There are always three roles: dead character, grieving character, and standing-off-to-one-side character, even if SOTOS character was just as much of a friend to dead character as grieving character. And even if, by all rights, there should be more than three characters.

Oh, and apologies for the title, I couldn't think of anything better.

_WARNING TEAR JERKER! Ash goes to visit a grave. VERY SAD! Do not read if you like happy endings! DARK! SAD! HEY PAY ATTENTION TO ME!_

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Grave Visit

By an inexplicably annoyed Farla

Ash stood on the verdant grass, staring at a single tombstone. If there were other tombstones (which, it presumably being a graveyard, there should have been) they went unnoticed. The lighting was bright and cheery, which made sense, seeing as it was early afternoon. Strangely, the natural world did not appear to be warping itself to match his presumably tortured thoughts.

Ash stopped his fixed stare on the headstone and quickly glared at the sky. With the embarrassed speed of an actor who missed had his cue, clouds quickly appeared and covered the sky.

The lighting sharply reduced, and the temperature obligingly plummeted. A thin mist rose up, just enough to render the air damp and clammy. Wind began to blow, pressing Ash's long, dark brown trenchcoat against his back dramatically.

That was better. Ash resumed his blank but focused stare on the gravestone. With the proper mood established, he was now free to begin his anguished thoughts.

Wait, whose grave was it? He'd been staring as required, but he'd been too focused on looking focused to remember to read the carved name.

Ah, right, Misty. He mentally cleared his throat.

_Why, Misty_ he thought, dredging up the most mournful mental tone he could. _Why did you have to die?_

Brochu was standing a respectful distance away, despite the fact Misty had been his friend as well and he should have been at the stone himself. He didn't want to interrupt Ash's dramatic morning scene. There was also the risk that if he reminded the author he existed, she might write a sequel where he committed suicide and Ash angsted over him as well. Ash would never forgive him for that; Ash visited enough graves as it was. Besides, if he got closer, he might have to angst over Misty's death too, and he couldn't quite remember which random way the author had decided Misty died this time.

Ash wasn't entirely clear on it either. He paused in his tormented musings for a moment. How had she died? Something angsty...terminal illness? No, not dismal enough. A storm...while they were out on a boat...Yes, that was it.

_Oh, Misty..._ he thought. _The day started off as the happiest of my life. I had beaten the Pokemon League. We were all out on the boat, and you...you confessed your love for me. We decided to marry. And then...out of nowhere, the storm sprung up. The boat capsized. You dove underwater, trying to find Togepi. And then the tentacool..._ He bowed his head lower, closing his eyes solemnly and trying to remember if he was supposed to cry or if that would ruin the atmosphere. _We found you washed up on shore hours later. You made it to the hospital, but died from pneumonia three days later. Togepi wasted away miserably, and your sister Violet committed suicide. If only...if only I had been a better swimmer, I could have saved you. I'm sorry, Misty._

Ash opened open eye, furtively looking around. Was that enough? It seemed to be getting darker. That meant it was time for him to dramatically leave before the author got any ideas and decided to write a fluffy sequel where Mew granted his wish and revived –

Ash quickly smacked himself in the head. _Don't think about it don't think about it_ he reminded himself. _Don't give the author ideas, don't give the reviewers ideas to give the author, just get away now_.

With long, dramatic strides, Ash walked away from the gravestone. Brochu followed, perhaps a trifle faster than was seemly.

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I also hate it when people write darkfic and then write a sequel 'fixing' everything. Either give the story a happy ending or don't. 


	2. The Chronicles of Woetwo

This particular concept is so prolific it could probably hold its own mini-Unorginality series, but I don't think it deserves that much time.

Incidentally, people really should look over Mewtwo's stat layout sometime.

Tragic Melodrama: The Chronicles of Woetwo

Mewtwo lay bleeding on the cold floor of his cell. A rocket kicked him in the side. "Pathetic pokemon," he snarled.

Such was Mewtwo's life. He'd been cloned as a replacement to the original mewtwo who had escaped. Of course, Giovanni didn't want a repeat of the last time, and so was doing this a little differently. Or entirely. Shortly after birth Mewtwo had been dumped off on a low-ranked rocket for training despite being born with enough power to level a small city. His new master was abusive and would whip him brutally for disobedience or failing to perform well enough, leaving him lying, barely able to move, in a pool of his own blood. The only upside was that he was only trained once every two or three weeks, as that was usually the amount of time it took the scientists to check him over and fix his injures. The whip tended to cause a lot of damage. In fact, Mewtwo was a bit confused as to why they whipped him rather than use the variety of restraining methods he'd seen used on other pokemon, like electric shock collars. It seemed his trainer just liked injuring him.

He couldn't fight back to protect himself from his abusive trainer thanks to the psychic-energy-suppressing device around his neck. It was apparently called a deus ex machina. With it there, he didn't have the ability to reduce the entire building to especially small pebbles at the thought. He was left only with his physical abilities, which were far weaker, being merely able to break down a few dozen reinforced walls in a few minutes.

The device was also the reason for his poor performance during training. It was hard to blast another pokemon into submission when your blasting ability is blocked to the point you can barely tip a glass over. Mewtwo wasn't too sure on what the point of the training was to start – no matter how strong he became, his displayed ability would remain the same as long as the deus ex machina was functioning, and they didn't seem to have any plans for using him with it on or ever taking it off (a wise decision given that he intended to kill them all if they did). They just kept training him and patching him up afterward.

He was in hell. Soon, he thought miserably, his trainer would go too far and kill him. Would they even care? Probably not. He was just a worthless experiment. Just another worthless, five billion dollar clone with the ability to single-handedly assure Team Rocket's victory. Why wouldn't they abuse him?

"Hey," hissed a pokemon in the cage next to him. "Mewtwo. Can you move?"

He groaned. "Yeah," he said, painfully pushing himself into a sitting position and looking toward the voice.

"Why don't you just bust out? You're more than strong enough to do it and free all of us, too."

"I-I can't. The deus ex machina..."

Out of sight, the arbok rolled her eyes. _He's even stupider than his predecessor. _"It's around your neck on a string," she explained patiently. "Just grab it in your hand and pull it off."


End file.
